He strode purposefully down the hall, head down and cursing. “Drat!” He spat the word off his lips. More followed, with increasing veracity and velocity. “Dirt! Dung! Daemon! Damn!” He passed an eternal guard and imagined the smug smile concealed beneath the woman's helmet. He whipped around and placed his lips to where he thought the sentry's ear would be and screamed. “Dwarf!” The poor woman could barely restrain herself, but to her credit and station, she only let out a tiny hiss of her true amusement. Thoroughly unsatisfied, he huffed and stomped off. Though, to his further embarrassment, his soft-booted feet utterly failed to add any chorus to his discontent. Behind him the guard finally lost control and her mocking laughter was the last thing he heard before entering his Lord's audience chamber.

“Ah, Spellsinger Salamandar!” The tallest and most wildly dressed elf in the room rose from his carved throne and applauded ironically. “Well, it was either you or a rabid squirrel being chased by the cooks. And yet, thanks to your fortunate and well-heralded arrival, I now own Lord Elwei's magnificent grey mare.” On cue, the room's occupants suddenly roared to life, rewarding their Lord's satire with laughter and applause. All except Lord Elwei, of course, who was inauspiciously moping beneath a tapestry with a relief of Loec the Trickster God. He was not the only one ill-amused. “My Lord Veriel,” Salamandar performed an outrageous genuflection, “I have better things, more important things to do than expose myself to whatever frivolity and pomp you are trying to pass off as grandeur.” The room laughed at him, not with him. “Singer Salamandar, I do believe you have, in your haste to acquiesce to my beckoning, once again forgotten to change your attire. Why, one would think you'd just finished catching and feathering tonight's dinner.” More cackling. “Very amusing, my Lord,” the spellsinger spoke while brushing away the eagle droppings and feathers from his robe. “But why would I need to catch one when there's plenty of fat fowl to be found right here in this very room?” Silence. The corners of Lord Veriel's mouth descended like a pair of spiders to their prey. That's it, I've overdone it. Oh, well. What of it? What do I care? Salamandar stood straighter and locked eyes with the now red-faced Wood Elf Lord. “You are fortunate, singer, that my wife finds your oddness and crassness amusing, or I would have you tied to a tree in the path of the wild hunt, and let them cut away all that coarseness. Whatever's left, I'd feed to the household spites, seeing as how they despise you so.” Laughter. Hmph! It's not my fault they are so nosey, always sticking their pointy noses in things that don't concern them. They have their uses though. At that final thought the spellsinger smiled, a smile that soon grew wider as the crowd of nobles and hopefuls suddenly parted to allow the passage of an exceptionally beautiful elf woman with hair so pale Salamandar imagined they could harvest it and turn it to bread. His stomach gurgled. He'd forgotten to have lunch again. The mistress of the house knew it too. “Singer Salamandar, has your work stolen your appetite, or just your memory of it?” This time his genuflection was sincere. “My Lady, in your glorious presence, food is the farthest from my mind.” He saw Lord Veriel's knuckles turn white at his side. But he decided to try his luck; he was beginning to enjoy himself. “In fact, my Lady, my mind has been preoccupied with our conversation last night regarding the dire condition of your gardenias. Unlike yours, their beauty and fragrance is fickle and fleeting.” Lady Veriel’s face turned slightly pink. “You are too kind, singer Salamandar. But do tell us. What can be done with such proud and stubborn flowers?” It was brief, unnoticeable to anyone not in her confidence, but as she spoke Salamandar saw her eyes flick to her husband. Excited, Salamandar forgot custom and moved to stand in the centre of the chamber, a position traditionally reserved for the Lord and Lady of the house. “Well, my Lady,” he struck a long finger into the air, “as we who are educated on such matters know, Gardenia flowers are a conceited breed,” he risked a quick glance towards Lord Veriel. The spiders had descended fully and he imagined their fangs would be full of venom just waiting for the right time to strike. Oh, well. If I am to be the fly, I may as well shake the web a bit more. “Yes, conceited and guard their secrets more closely than even the tree witch Drycha.” A few gasps of disbelief and disapproval. “After all, the flower’s name does mean secret love, does it not?” This time he looked into Lady Veriel’s eyes and was thrilled to find they were already gazing into his own. Out the corner of his eye, Salamandar saw Lord Veriel make a start towards him. Quickly, Salamandar darted through a gap in the crowd and put a good number elves between him and the jealous Lord. He then continued his lecture. “Indeed, a delicate flower is the gardenia. Some may even say a paradox with its favoured spot being in direct sunlight but then again not!” The crowd was finally laughing with him. “Too much light, the buds will hide, but too little and watch them die. My Lady you were right to ask why!” She was laughing with the crowd, and her mirth spurred him onwards.

“Well, I'm no gardener, that's true, but a wood elf am I, through and through, So its expected that one know a thing or two. First shift the flowers from beside your bed, Far from the cold and what is now dead, My Lady, hold the buds to your chest and let passion return their life to you.”

“Hear, hear!” The crowd agreed and applauded. Salamandar gave them a bow. “Enough!” Lord Veriel cried. The wood elf Lord was shoving his way toward Salamandar with the ferocity and finesse of a charging boar. Salamandar tried once again to find a gap through which to escape, but the crowd was pressing in on him, all wanting to congratulate him for his impromptu limerick. He thought about using magic to shift him out of the corporeal world but given his current situation, he would more than likely bring a half dozen people along with him. Not a problem, really, unless they wanted to shift back again. Too late. The last of Salamandar's unsuspecting defenders was thrown aside and then Lord Veriel was standing before him in all his beastial glory. Honestly, with the elf Lord's antlered helm, fur-hide cloak and flaring nostrils, Salamandar thought a Great Stag was about to impale and trample him. He was surprised, then, by his own unbidden bravado. “My Lord, Salamandar tried, “have you ever felt the pull of Kurunos? I fear his horn calls for you now. Best not to keep him waiting.” Salamandar gave Lord Veriel his most disarming smile. It didn’t work. Lord Veriel drew back a balled fist. Salamandar closed his eyes and grimaced in anticipation of the coming blow, a blow that never came. He opened an eye to find Lady Veriel standing between him and her fuming husband. She was facing the Lord with her shapely behind facing Salamandar. The material of her white gown was as transparent as a dragonfly’s wing and he found it impossible to take his attention away from her perfect form to listen to what she was saying to Lord Veriel. “Calm, my husband. Calm. You are worried about our sons’ coming watch of Athel Loren. Surely your worry will go with them, but let not your humor be taken too, my love.” She accentuated her plea by cupping his face with her hands and kissing the Lord's lips. Lord Veriel’s face, which before was a rich shade of persimmon, faded to a dull pink. Salamandar felt no relief, however, his guts twisted with jealousy. Seeing that she was succeeding, Lady Veriel kept up her offensive. “Singer Salamandar has helped our house greatly this season, my love…” Salamandar bit down on his tongue and dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands. “…and there are not many singers that will freely and so easily exchange words with those outside of the waystones. Surely, you can allow him this one minor victory.” Lord Veriel had not quite yet been placated. “Should I? Even if it comes at the cost of my own?” She shifted her lips to the Lord's ear and whisperd something that confirmed her as the final victor, for when Lord Veriel spoke again he seemed to have regained most of his civility. Lord Veriel placed a possesive arm around his wife and said, “Singer Salamandar, I believe you have earned yourself a reprieve from all of this frivolity and pomp, as you put it. Salamandar was surprised at how quickly the crowd had returned to laughing at him. “My sons are waiting for you, Lord Veriel concluded with a victorious smile.” To Salamandar, the din in the room suddenly went quiet, the voices muted by a sudden rush of rage and fear that filled his head and burned his ears. It took every bit of what remained of his reason not to run from the room and keep running back home to the high cliffs from which he had descended. Salamandar's reply was heralded by a snort of contempt,“Your dolts of sons are no doubt still lying in the pool of their own immoderation that I found them in this morning. I could crawl back to my chamber and still be there in time to watch the fools argue over who gets to step through the door first.” Only as he had let the final word of his lips, did Salamandar realsise that he was shaking. Lord Veriel looked thoroughly amused, given the smug smile he was wearing. “It is true they have yet to shed the down of youth, but I have every confidence that by the time they return home from their patrol of the Athel Loren their swords and hearts will have been suitably hardened.” Before shooting his final arrow, Lord Veriel lead his wife to their thrones and unceremoniously slumped into his own. The Lord then turned his eyes upon Salamandar and fired. “And who better than yourself, Singer Salamandar, a month of your provincial charm is sure to toughen their hides.” The Lord took this moment to straighten in his chair. “And who knows, they may even find the will to finish what you and I began here tonight.” The room was laughing at Salamandar again and with the Lady Veriel's sympathetic eyes staring upon him, he found himself in a very rare and uncomfortable position; he was at a loss for words. Lord Veriel had no such trouble. “Oh, and one more thing Singer. You'll find the borders of Athel Loren to be quite a bit more demanding than the cliffs you fell from. Down here we actually have to fight for our peace. Tread carefully. I wouldn't want you to befall any ill in the absence of my wife.” Salamandar's ire at last got the better of his fear and he managed one final swipe at his adopted Lord. Raising his voice loud enough to be heard above the still snickering audience, Salamandar said, “You may find that my skill and stamina surprise you, my Lord. Just ask you wife.” He did not give Lord Veriel time to strike back. Grabbing the fabric of his cloak above where his heart was stil racing, Salamandar mumbled the words of Ghur. It took him only a brief moment of pain to cut through the layers of built up civility and reach the feral core and then only another few seconds to fly out of the room.

All eyes in the grand hall had turned to watch the eagle that had been the wizard fly out through the double doors. Thus none saw the dark figure drifting among the shadows toward Lord Veriel. None but Lord Veirel, however, for he had been expecting this particular caller. Though the Lord knew that the elf could easily have kept his arrival hidden from him, too, should he have chosen to. Lord Veriel watched the caller slip into a room off the main hall. He then excused himself from his wife and guests and followed. Once in the room, with the door closed safely behind him Lord Veriel addressed his visitor by the title he was best known. “Waybreaker?” From a dark corner of the room came the disparate answer.“I suppose that was him.” The elf's cold voice sent a shiver of nerves down Lord Veriel's back. Still, off all his talents, Lord Veriel prided himself most on his ability to behead fear the moment it showed its unwelcome face. “Of course. Though I doubt you asked to meet with me to confirm that. Hurry up. I have guests waiting.” The elf shifted forward and Lord Veriel swore that the shadows moved with him. “They can wait. I can't.” “I told you, you'll be paid when my sons return.” “Not accpetable. Payment first.” Lord Veriel's hand instinctively went to the dagger at his belt but before he could start to draw it forth, something bit his hand, something small but with wickedly sharp teeth. Once, twice and over and over again the stinging bites assailed his flesh. The Highborn grit his teeth together and said, “Enough! Call them off, damn you!” “You highborn are all the same, so shocked when the trees don't part for you,” came the reply. Lord Veriel managed a lucky strike at one of the sprties clawing at his leg and said, “Yet you'd be surprised at how often they do.” Waybreaker murmed a few words and the sprites immediately lept of the Lord and rushed back to hide beneath the cloak of their master. “You promised me, something. I would have it now or you can leave your sons to the fate of Athel Loren.” “Very well, but there is one more job you must do.” “The Wizard?” “Of course.”